


Storm

by Anonymous



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Iliad - Homer
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Touch-Starved, sex as coping method
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 08:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30052728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Paris is dead and Helen is at a loss.  She is surprised to find sympathy and more from a brief moment with an also-mourning Andromache.
Relationships: Andromache/Helen of Troy (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Kudos: 3
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hmweasley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hmweasley/gifts).



Paris was dead. 

Paris was dead, and Helen could only wonder in the detached way that had become her nature, why she didn’t feel anything. She loved him. She had loved him so much, she had followed him into disaster, plunging two empires into a decade-long war. What would she do without him? Why couldn’t she grieve him the way she should? 

But it seemed that all of Troy was struggling with how to grieve Paris, who’d brought blood and ruin to their gates. Lamentations were subdued, ten long years of horror and hardship doing much to sap the love which Troy had showered on the golden people’s prince, once upon a time. Widows still grieving their own fallen husbands had few tears to spare for the cause of that grief. King Priam was a broken ghost of a man, while his mad daughter Cassandra had fallen into an eerie sort of silence.

A knock at her door woke Helen from her reverie. The woman who entered, without waiting for an invitation or even acknowledgement, was another of Troy’s living ghosts. Andromache, still draped in black, glided toward her on silent feet. Wordlessly, she took Helen by the hand, led her to the sumptuous couch, and pressed a glass of wine to her bloodless lips. Helen drank deeply, because she had no will to resist, and then turned a questioning glance to her surprising companion.

“Queen Hecabe had to do this for me,” Andromache answered the unspoken query. “After Hector died, I had no will to go on.” 

Helen heard the catch in Andromache’s voice as she spoke her husband’s name. Hector’s death was still a dagger to both their hearts. At the time, Helen had mourned him freely and publicly. Strange that she couldn’t mourn her own husband now.

“But Hecabe reminded me that I _had_ to go on,” Andromache continued. “I have a son, and even if he only lives a few more months or weeks or days, he deserves to life fully in the time given him. And you, Helen, you have all of Troy.” Andromache gripped Helen’s hand and squeezed tightly.

“Paris is dead,” Helen whispered. “How can Troy need me now? My reason for being here is gone, and death stalks ever closer. Troy will have no choice but to return me to Menelaus.”

Andromache was silent for a long moment. They sat together in sympathetic grief and mutual pain.

“Does the goddess still speak to you?” Andromache asked suddenly.

Helen plucked at her own dark robe, thinking about the goddess who guided her destiny. Aphrodite, Lady of Love. Paris’ Protectress. “Sometimes, although only about Paris. She would tell me of Paris’ needs, send me to him. I believe that Golden Aphrodite loved Paris, rather than me. I haven’t heard her voice since…” Helen trailed off, unable to voice the words. 

The realization that Aphrodite’s favour hadn’t been hers at all had stung. Helen had trusted the goddess, believed that her love for Paris was special, marked with divine approval and protection. She would never have risked everything and plunged the world into war without the goddess’ voice in her ear. At least, Helen thought she wouldn’t. 

“Paris was so sure of her protection,” Andromache said sadly. “It took Hector’s death to finally break that spell.”

“Andromache, I’m so sorry. But no one else need die for my arrogant folly. Your son can grow to manhood and then old age, and be your support in his father’s stead.”

“Helen, no!” Andromache cried fiercely. “Neither side will accept those terms now. Menelaus might agree, but Agamemnon will continue regardless. He won’t rest until either he sees Troy burn, or he falls instead.”

“Agamemnon might, if his soldiers are weary enough of a decade of war. The Argives have suffered bitter losses, too – Achilles, Telemonian Aias. Without them, Agamemnon might not be able to clinch his victory.”

“Do you truly believe that?”

Helen’s shoulders sagged. In truth, she did not. The Achaeans still had new allies to call, including the young son of Achilles and Philoctetes, whose bow slew Helen’s beloved. Priam had exhausted all of his allies, and it was unclear if the city could withstand one more winter of siege. Priam would never surrender, but starving to death meant death, all the same. 

Andromache reached out to cup Helen’s chin. “You can’t abandon us now. Menelaus will have you on a ship back to Sparta while he continues his mad campaign, but Troy will lose all heart and hope without your beauty to spur them.”

Andromache’s hand slid up to Helen’s cheek, slender fingers stroking the soft skin delicately. Helen leaned into the touch. The last months with Paris had been cold and distant, devoid of physical and emotional affection, and no one else dared to touch her. 

“I don’t want more to die for my beauty,” she whispered.

Andromache’s thumb settled on Helen’s lips, shushing her. “I’m afraid that is not in your hands, but the gods’. But I know you loved Paris, and I know you love Troy. It’s enough, Helen.” The pad of her thumb ran along Helen’s full lower lip. 

Helen’s arm looped around Andromache’s neck, drawing her closer. Andromache’s eyes were dark pools of sorrow and compassion but buried deep beneath that, glimmered the same awed reverence and desire that always sparked the gazes of those who beheld Helen’s beauty. 

They stayed like that for another moment, Andromache’s hand caressing Helen’s face and Helen’s arm holding Andromache close. When their lips met, Helen couldn’t say who made the first move. Andromache’s lips were sweet and moist, faintly flavoured with wine. Helen pulled her closer, fingers tangling in Andromache’s long, loose hair. Loose to signify Andromache’s mourning status. Images of Hector and Paris flashed behind Helen’s eyes, and she pressed closer still, chasing the honeyed sweetness. Andromache moaned against her, mouth opening to welcome Helen’s questing tongue. No longer a ghost, Andromache was a living, breathing thing, beautiful in her vitality and need. She could anchor Helen to the living world, and consign the ghosts to their past. 

Helen pushed until Andromache’s back hit the sofa, Helen stretched out atop her. Their mouths stayed locked together, while their hands roamed, pushing aside draped gowns to close on supple flesh. Helen cupped and molded Andromache’s breast in her hand. She could feel Andromache’s dainty hands closing on her back, and then moving lower to clutch the globes of her buttocks. Finally pulling away from Andromache’s life-giving lips, Helen’s mouth latched onto her white neck, sucking bruises into the delicate flesh.

“Helen,” Andromache gasped. “Helen, what are you doing?”

“Making sure,” Helen murmured against Andromache’s throat. “I’m making sure that we’re both still alive. That we’re both still real.”

In answer, Andromache tugged Helen up to fuse their lips together again. Nothing felt real except the body beneath hers. The walls and plains of Troy faded away, as Helen’s world narrowed to Andromache’s curves and warm, aching mouth. 

Helen mapped Andromache’s body with her hands and mouth. Menelaus and Paris had both pleasured her, and taken their own pleasure from her, but she’d never been granted the luxury of just exploring another’s body. Andromache was soft and supple, white breasts and lush thighs. Helen kissed her way down Andromache’s body, until she reached the apex of those thighs. Glancing back up, she saw Andromache’s head thrown back, long hair cascading to the ground. Her thighs fell apart, seemingly of their own accord.

When Helen licked at the juncture of her thighs, she felt a shudder pass through Andromache. She licked again, exploring the velvety folds and salt tang. Andromache’s legs spread further, welcoming Helen deeper. Soon, Helen had Andromache moaning and arching against her. A hand snarled in Helen’s hair, pulling her mouth closer. The tender, intimate folds seemed to swell against Helen’s tongue, and so Helen licked deeper, hoping to alleviate the pressure building inside her. Helen chased that taste of mortal vibrancy, delighting in the sight and feel of feminine pleasure. While her mouth worked, she wormed one hand between her own legs, her fingers repeating on herself what her tongue wrought on Andromache.

Andromache screamed as she came, thighs tightening around Helen’s head, pleasure shuddering over both like a wave upon the sand. Helen herself followed not long after. 

Afterward, Helen thanked Andromache, pressing a soft, grateful kiss to her lips. This moment would never happen again, but it would live on in Helen’s memories. A choice she’d made both for herself and without the goddess’ guidance. The darkest days were yet to come, but both women were alive again, ready to face the coming storm. 

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece to A Destiny and a Promise. Sorry this wasn't finished before Reveals!


End file.
